Naruto: A Red Eye Hidden by Shadow

by Tatanka4Life

On the fateful night of the Uchiha Massacre, a girl of Uchiha and Nara blood is spared and left with no memories of her past. Now she must walk on the path left by her family to help her build a new future for herself. Her path will be hard, full of struggles and pain, but as long as she has her friends and family at her side she will keep forging ahead, even if it was a drag.

117. Chapter 116: Infiltration into Hell

Chapter 116

Infiltration into Hell: The Crimson Tears of Hiramekarei!

The underground mine was an endless maze. A maze which consisted of nothing except stark stone and hellish labor, illuminated by artificial lights strung haphazardly from the low ceilings. It all appeared the same. The barren and confining walls deprived all sense of direction. It manipulated the mind. Fed the soul large servings of doubt until one slowly began to believe there was no exit.

Prior to her imprisonment within this vast maze of stone, Haruhi had never seen a mine; no mission ever required her to infiltrate or dismantle an operation hidden within the dark and harsh belly of a mountain. Haruhi missed the infinite open sky, strangely. She'd never noticed her affinity to it before, not until it was replaced by claustrophobic stone.

Without prior experiences to rely on, the kunoichi couldn't say if the narrow, rectangular-shaped halls were standard custom for these operations, or if there were meant to be crossroads and T-junctions that led to a seemingly never-ending series of other crossroads and junctions.

The stony halls were foreign. Complex. And inhabited by far too many guards and prisoners to slip through undetected.

Haruhi stood motionless against a stone wall, stiller than a day old corpse, her nearly nude, bruised and bloody body bathed in inconvenient artificial light she couldn't strike down without drawing unwanted attention. She gripped a kunai in her uninjured left hand, contemplating their options.

Chinami was flush against the wall directly beside her, attired in the clothes and flak jacket of their imprisoners—everything was several sizes too large for her. She nervously held onto the kunoichi's bloody right elbow, mint green eyes wide with adrenaline and her unevenly chopped platinum hair damp with sweat. She was breathing heavily. Fear, Haruhi diagnosed confidently. Rightfully so, given what failure meant for them.

The kunoichi was not afraid. She was determined.

Her broken hand hurt. The minor fracture in her ankle made traversing these halls tedious and inefficient. Movement was a necessity for survival, however. Stagnation and hesitation meant discovery and death, or fates far worse. So Haruhi transcended her pain, focusing on her goal. Her mission.

There is no pain. There is only the mission.

Their escape thus far continued to go unnoticed, but their progress towards complete freedom was minimal. They were running in place, drawn in by the illusion of mountain peaks lying just beyond a bend in the road, believing they were within reach.

They were not.

The longer they lingered in this incomplete freedom, this purgatory between hellish imprisonment and heavenly freedom, the higher the chance they would be captured and dragged back into the dark and grotesque cell they only recently escaped.

Since their escape they had taken several evasive deviations in this maze to avoid encountering guard patrols and prisoners alike. Haruhi did not trust the other prisoners. They were victims, yes. But through gathering Intel from Chinami she learned the vile cretins in charge ran their labor camps and Flower Shops on a reward-punishment system.

Those who leaked information on possible escape attempts were rewarded with meals, water, drugs, less hours of work or other means to entice cooperation. Liars and escapees were punished at whipping posts or through other means of violation, abuse and defilement.

We cannot trust the prisoners until all of the guards are dead. And I cannot kill all of them.

To leave the halls strewn with corpses would only alert the guards. They needed to be ghosts within the mines, shadows which glided through the halls unseen if they hoped to see the sky again.

However, escape would be impossible without some measure of guidance or direction. She needed more information. She needed to interrogate a guard or locate a prisoner willing to aid them, preferably someone who knew these halls and the direction of the exit intimately. Aimless and desperate roaming was wasting too much time and energy. Far too much.

Decision made, Haruhi gestured Chinami to follow with a tilt of her head; silent gestures were their only means of communication now, here in the lion's den where a single mistake could alert their hunters.

They glided down the wall. Haruhi watched their front with sharp orange eyes while Chinami monitored the path they'd come from, their senses heightened by the threat of danger, their heartbeats like solid thrusts of a wooden staff against their chests.

Haruhi could hear voices. Someone was laughing. Another was screaming horribly—torture or punishment, she presumed. She followed the voices to another junction, shut her eyes after checking both passages for enemies and listened.

Where were the screams coming from? Straight ahead or down the right passageway?

It's coming from the right.

Again with a silent tilt of her head, Haruhi gestured Chinami to follow her towards the screaming. It was then the woman spoke in a trembling whisper.

"I think the screams are coming from this way."

"Mmhm," Haruhi confirmed.

"Shouldn't we go the other way?"

"No. We're aimless. The guards or their prisoner will know where we must go. Now please stay quiet."

The screams grew closer as they crossed swiftly and silently down the hall, fortunately absent of guards, when they finally came upon another heavy steel door left slightly ajar. The voices were coming from inside. The screamer was whimpering, the torturer was talking.

Haruhi instinctively lowered into a crouch, pressing against the wall; Chinami mirrored the action but kept her eyes at their back.

"—better, don't you think?"

The victim sobbed indistinctly.

"Now now, I know it hurts. But think of your reward! It's almost time for your next dose. Euphoric bliss and pleasure are close at hand. Aren't you excited? I know I am. Now, repeat after me: No one escapes the mines."

"N- No one escapes the mines!" the victim's voice trembled.

"I am happy to serve my masters."

"I am happy to serve my masters!"

"I will be rewarded for good behavior."

"I will be rewarded for good behavior!"

"Excellent. So, when one of your fellow miners decides to plot an escape or a rebellion like you did, you'll have nothing to fear by telling us. You'll even be rewarded. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Ye- yes."

Haruhi had heard enough. There was only the torturer and his victim inside. She could see his shadow, seated beside another; his back was turned to the door.

He wouldn't see her.

It would have been child's play to slam the door open, rush in and slay the man where he stood before he could utter a sound. Easy, but attention drawing. Instead, Haruhi pressed the back of her hand against the steel and gently pushed, endeavoring to open a small enough space for her and Chinami to slip in.

The door did not creak. Unlike their prison cell it was well-maintained and shifted open little by little noiselessly. Fortunate for her needs. Unfortunate for the torturer inside.

As soon as the necessary gap was attained, Haruhi dislodged her elbow from Chinami's vice grip and motioned silently for her to follow and shut the door behind them.

Inside, the torturer was attired in a white thermal long sleeve and brown winter pants; a black winter jacket was draped over the chair he occupied. He wore medical gloves. His salt and pepper hair was afflicted by a bald spot at the back of his head.

Bound at his wrists, ankles and head to a stiff wooden chair beside the torturer, attached to medical fluids Haruhi assumed were meant to prolong life and consciousness was the victim: a middle-aged man, bald, brutalized and stripped to his underwear.

It was hard to tell where his wounds began and where they ended. Some were older, visibly infected. Others fresh like hers. The worst she could see were the missing fingernails and eyeball in his right eye.

The torturer hadn't sensed her entrance. He was enamored by the syringe in his hand, which he lifted towards the ceiling light. He didn't see the ruthless shadow approaching.

"This little treat will make all the pain worth it. You remember how it felt, don't you? All the doses that came before? Oh, look at you! I can see your body beginning to tremble. It needs it. You want your taste of—"

The torturer gasped sharply. His face became stricken by piercing agony, mouth agape with wordless, guttural noises escaping on harsh breaths. His body seized up, muscles contracting and beginning to spasm viciously.

Haruhi yanked her kunai from his back, splattering a fresh and wet streak of crimson over the floor. Then she kicked him out of the chair, onto the remorseless stone earth this hell was constructed from.

The syringe fell out of his hand. His eyes were wide, fearful. He'd never been cut or stabbed before, Haruhi presumed confidently. This was his first time.

He writhed on the floor, hands grasping at the wound. His screams intensified when he saw his hands slick with blood, but no one would hear him. No one would question it.

Haruhi stalked closer, penetrating orange gaze locked onto the torturer. Her eyes at that moment, ruthless and intense, could be associated with a raging inferno ravaging a Nation as fire literally rained from the sky, a serrated blade sawing through flesh and bone and the Shinigami appearing with blade in hand to smite down an entire platoon of shinobi in one sweep.

The torturer did not see a partially unclothed prisoner. He saw a demoness walking through hellfire and brimstone to claim his soul. He had enough sense to try to crawl away on his forearms, wailing.

"I've taken your legs," Haruhi said with cold indifference. "What shall I take next?"

She paused when she stepped on the tube of his syringe. The kunoichi eyed it, briefly. It hadn't broken on the floor, surprisingly. The tube was intact, full with a clear liquid of some kind.

The torturer's breath caught. Haruhi glanced up, noticing his eyes wide in horror in reaction to her examination of the syringe. It enticed her to lean over and pick it up after sheathing her kunai into her procured toolbox.

With one stride she cleared what little distance his pathetic retreat created. The second she used to pin his paralyzed leg down with her foot and hold him in place.

"What makes you fear this needle, hm? You claimed it was euphoria your victim would experience. Don't you want a taste?"

"No! No! Stay away! Heelpppp! Help, please!"

"How many others have screamed those same words, I wonder? Did your allies come then?"

Haruhi stepped again. She placed her foot on his chest, effectively pinning him down against the stone floor, where he struggled like a caged rat to scratch and peel her foot away. The kunoichi shifted all of her weight onto that same foot. He wheezed and quieted, lungs deprived of air, face flushing red. She positioned her opposite foot beside his head and lowered her shin over his throat.

After placing the tube of the syringe between her teeth, she equipped her kunai again and cut the fabric of his sleeve, taking no care to prevent stabbing or cutting his flesh. Once his arm was bare, and stained by beads of blood, she reequipped the syringe in her bloody and broken hand and tugged his wrist closer.

"Where is the exit?" Haruhi demanded.

"What?"

"Where. Is. The. Exit."

"Yo- you won't escape. There are more guards between you and freedom than—"

Haruhi positioned the needle over his vein. His horrified expression was almost comical.

"No! Don't!"

"I didn't ask your opinion on our chances of escape. I asked where to find the exit. Will this narcotic make you cooperate better?"

"No! Please, you don't understand—"

"Is your organization selling this narcotic?"

"Ye- yes," he hesitantly complied out of fear. "It's a pure euphoria, crafted for short bursts of bliss in highly addictive small doses. The people in this Land, they just want happiness, right? We made that into a drug. But one dose is never enough. And when they can't pay for their addiction any longer the boss turns them into employees. That needle is a highly concentrated dose."

Haruhi's glare strangled him viciously; it set his skin aflame and severed his head from his shoulders. The torturer was trembling. His lips were quivering

"How dare you infect this Land and its people by preying on their misery," she hissed. "How dare you trick them into poisoning themselves by claiming it will grant them the peace and happiness they seek."

Without a shred of guilt or mercy, the kunoichi plunged the needle into his vein and injected a small dose of the narcotic into his bloodstream. She watched him with violent orange eyes as his features twisted from horror into a glassy eyed bliss. His lips split into a gleeful, simpleminded smile a moment later.

The torturer plunged into a dream-like peace. But like all dreams it ended when he woke up.

Immediately Haruhi noticed the effects of the drug fading. His glassy eyes had become bloodshot over a minutes time; his skin began to flush and blot red around his neck, over his face and even his bare arm; his hands were already trembling.

"Wha- what have you done to me?"

"How does it feel to be infected?" she hissed. "How does it feel to have your choice stolen from you? All those people you've infected with this narcotic, all the people you've imprisoned in labor camps and Flower Shops, this is the same suffering you've afflicted them with. Your organization has stripped these people of their pride, of their choice and freedom. You've stolen their lives and their humanity for your inhumane and disgusting sense of satisfaction, branding them with scars they can never remove!"

She injected a little more into his bloodstream.

When he finally came around from his stupor of bliss, he was sweating and quaking beneath her. He looked pleadingly to the syringe, still half filled with the narcotic.

"The world… There aren't any colors anymore. It's all so dull and broken and… I can't… I can't… I need…"

Cruelly, the kunoichi lifted the syringe away from his wrist. He thrashed viciously beneath her. He went nowhere.

"Where is the exit?" she demanded again.

He told her. In explicit detail.

Haruhi separated the needle from the syringe and tossed the needle aside to the despair and horror of the torturer.

"No. No. No. We can't leave. No one leaves the mines."

The ragged and manic voice of his prisoner snapped her head around, where she found Chinami kneeling in front of the middle-aged man, who was curled up in the fetal position, trembling visibly. His nail-less fingers dug into the bony flesh of his arms.

"You're safe now," Chinami reassured. "They can't hurt you anymore. All of us will soon be free."

"Free? No. No! I don't want to be free. Serving the masters makes me happy. Really, it does. I'll be good."

"Chinami, get away from him." Haruhi rose quickly. "Don't say anything else."

"We can't leave him here," Chinami argued softly, looking at her and away from the threat. "If another guard comes, they will kill him. We have to bring him with us."

"Bring with us?" The one-eyed victim lifted his head up. "Where are you going? You can't leave."

"Yes, we can," Chinami countered. "This isn't our prison any longer."

"Chinami, stop."

"No. No. No. No. We can't leave."

For a man who had been tortured and drugged he was quick. He lurched into Chinami in a blink, tackling her to the floor, climbing on top of her and pinning her down. Chinami didn't scream. Her eyes did, but no scream ever roared out of her. She stiffened on the floor, eyes, face and body frozen in horror.

"You can't leave! Master! Master! This woman is trying to escape! I'll stop her! I will!" he wailed, voice breaking.

He wrapped his hands around Chinami's throat, who already bore the appearance of a pale corpse. Her eyes screamed shrilly from the past trauma's she was trapped inside of.

A hand clasped around Haruhi's ankle as she tried to rush over to her companion. The torturer dug his nails into her ankle. His pleading bloodshot eyes gazed up at her.

"The colors are all gone. Give them back. Please. Let me see the colors again!"

"Chinami! Wake up!" Haruhi commanded.

She whirled around on the torturer and stomped on his throat with her injured foot, caving it in with a single blow.

A scuffle broke out behind her. Chinami wailed. When Haruhi spun around the woman was on top of the one-eyed victim, hands wrapped around his throat as she slammed his skull repeatedly into the stone floor. Tears were pouring from her wide and wild eyes, blood was pouring from his head and pooling on the floor.

She was wailing. He was deathly silent.

Haruhi limped swiftly over to the woman, carefully cradling the needleless syringe in her broken hand.

"Chinami."

Chinami continued to slam his head into the floor, though each thrust was weaker than the last as her wailing slowly devolved into ragged sobs. A few moments later she stopped her retaliatory attacks. Her hands remained wrapped around his throat as she lowered her head, body heaving with heavy and broken sobs.

Haruhi turned away, grabbed a chair and settled it down beside the pair. She crouched down beside Chinami. Gently, she pried her fingers from the corpse's throat before guiding her to sit in the chair. Chinami's heaving sobs continued as she hunched forward, burying her tear streaked face into hands.

The misery they inflict is endless. Haruhi frowned, looking down at her hands. They were covered in blood, dried and fresh. The hands of a soldier. All I can do is cut it out. All I can do is remove these cancerous tumors before they spread too far. But I cannot heal Chinami's pain. I cannot cut it out or mend it like a broken bone. That is not what my hands are capable of.

For the first time since she awoke in her cell, Haruhi felt helpless. She didn't know how to handle it, or how to help. She was uncomfortable and awkward, feeling as if she had been seated at a funeral for a stranger she had never known and forced to bear witness to the heartbreak, grief and trauma of other strangers.

"Why?" Chinami found a single word, choked out in a sob.

Haruhi understood. She looked with detached eyes to the corpse—no longer a person. Just a corpse, a shell that once contained the spirit of a stranger.

"They broke him down, stole his soul piece by piece until all that remained was an empty shell. Then they molded him into an obedient slave through the use of torture and this narcotic they created."

"I was- I was trying to help him."

"I know. But he was beyond saving. Whoever he was before the torture died long before we arrived." Haruhi turned her head to look at Chinami. "Forgive me, but we shouldn't linger here any longer. Can you stand?"

Though still sniffling, Chinami nodded and rose to her feet. She wiped her tears and runny nose on her sleeve, but they continued to leak. Her glistening eyes were drawn to Haruhi's bloody hand and the syringe it cradled.

"Why do you have that terrible syringe?"

"My hope is a medic-nin can decipher the contents of the narcotic and create an antidote," Haruhi replied, glancing down at the syringe. "And if we know the contents, we may be able to track their supply and destroy it all."

She outstretched her broken hand. "Will you please carry it for me?"

"Okay."

Settled and prepared to leave this room of misery behind, Haruhi turned towards the door. She paused when Chinami grabbed her right bicep.

"Haruhi?"

"Yes?"

"I have a favor to ask. If we cannot escape, please…kill me. Do not let them turn me into a shell."

Haruhi gazed into Chinami's pleading mint green eyes for a moment. Then nodded.

"Of course."

They pressed on in their escape.

---

The entrance to the mines had been guarded by two bandits with no shinobi training. They were given no quarter by the two Mist shinobi, falling in a swift ambush as the pair dashed into the cave entrance out of the blizzard and struck them before they could rise from their seats.

Chōjūrō was grateful to be out of the blizzard, but knew their troubles had only begun.

As he knelt at the edge of a massive perfectly square hole inside the cave, examining the ropes and pulley systems that led deeper into the darkness, he wondered what waited for them at the bottom of this pit. He feared the worst.

"An elevator shaft, huh?" Natsumi noted as she joined him. "Makes sense that the only path to hell is down into the darkness."

"Yeah," he nodded solemnly. "I'm trying not to imagine what we'll find."

"Nothing good, that's for sure."

"I can't see or hear anything from up here." He stared into the darkness for a pregnant moment. Then exhaled. "But it doesn't matter. We'll get down there, save Haruhi and Chinami and put an end to this labor camp."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Natsumi said with a firm nod. "Just try not to bring this mountain down on top of us, yeah?"

Chōjūrō ducked his head down, blushing. "I'll- I'll do my best."

"Follow my lead."

They descended into the elevator shaft by means of the walls, dashing with light feet as they delved into blackness that blinded all sight. Only the blue hues of chakra at the soles of their feet were visible, glowing like four large fireflies crashing their heads into a wall in search of escape from captivity.

When they neared the bottom, evident by the artificial light breaking through a thin gap between the wooden elevator and the shaft, the shinobi slowed their dash, steadied their breathing and silently descended closer to their objective.

Voices were coming from below. Chōjūrō pressed his hand against the wall, squinting through the darkness to Natsumi's position, who gestured silently to halt. He obeyed, and listened.

"Do you ever wonder how you ended up here?"

"I was ordered to this post, same as you."

"No!" the first guard countered, annoyed. "Not here here. I mean here. In this situation where we're glorified elevator guards at the bottom of the world, where there's no sunlight, no bar and just—nothing! Nothing! Look around! There's just rock and ore and literally nothing else!"

The second guard exhaled a resigned sigh. "Yeah."

"I mean, the pay is good. Don't get me wrong. I just… I'm in my prime, and all I've been doing the last few months is guarding an elevator. I want to get out there and live!"

"Maybe we should ask the boss or his enforcer for a new posting."

"Oh no! No way! I am not asking that gold-toothed freak for anything!"

"Yeah, me neither. That guy gives me the creeps."

"Me too."

There was a brief pause. Then the first guard spoke again.

"Seen his latest catch?"

"I didn't get a good look at her."

"She's a Mist kunoichi. I heard she killed a few of Sōma's men before they captured her."

"Ah, hell. The Mist? That's just asking for trouble."

"What are you talking about? The Mist is just a shell of its former self. And besides, doesn't the boss have a deal with the Fourth Mizukage?"

"God, do you even pay attention to current events?"

"What? What? Hey, don't ignore me! What did I miss?"

"The Fourth Mizukage is dead, you idiot. Slain by a kunoichi of incredible power."

"No way!" the first guard gasped. "The Fourth is dead? Wait, it isn't the kunoichi down here, is it?"

"No. The woman who killed the Fourth Mizukage is Mei Terumī, a survivor of the kekkei genkai purges and the Blood Mist Exam. They say she killed her own sister in cold blood during the graduation exam. And now she's the Fifth Mizukage."

"…Oh."

"Yeah, exactly."

"Well, at least we're hidden away, right? Even if they do find this place, it'll take them too long and that kunoichi will die. And it isn't like the Mist has ever been in any rush to save their shinobi. She can't have changed that much of the Mist. Right?"

"Who knows. But if they do come snooping around or seeking vengeance, who are the second group they'll have to deal with?"

"…Us?"

"Snatching a Mist shinobi is asking for trouble," the second guard said resolutely. "Maybe it's time to cut ties and find new work. A different Land that isn't so cold would be nice."

Natsumi held up two fingers, signaling there were only the two guards to worry about. She followed that gesture with a command to move down to the elevator. Chōjūrō nodded sharply.

Climbing down the wall, he slowly lowered himself onto the roof of the elevator, where he was joined by Natsumi wielding a kunai. He equipped his own, and on a silent count of three they cut a single swift square into the roof where it wouldn't interfere with the pulley system. Of the pair, it was Natsumi to catch the severed panel before it could fall into the elevator.

"Huh? What was that?" the second guard questioned.

"I don't know. Think they're screwing with us up there?"

Again, the kunoichi gave silent commands with her hands, giving him an approximate location of where the guards were located. They would have to be quick to prevent an alarm being raised; alerting the other guards might encourage them to kill Haruhi and Chinami, and the element of surprise would be an asset in this foreign location.

Chōjūrō equipped a second kunai and nodded his assent with her plan. After a breath and lightly readjusting his glasses with his wrist, he dropped down into the elevator first, eyeing his targets before launching his attack.

Natsumi's approximate positioning was keener than he could hope for.

The guards sat just outside of the elevator, swords in reach and heads facing the elevator. At the sight of him, their eyes widened, but for the guard farthest from Chōjūrō it was already too late.

The Swordsman launched ahead, throwing his kunai at the farthest guard; he attempted to evade, but was too slow, resulting in the blade opening up a fatal gouge in his jugular.

As he toppled out of his chair, hands grasping at his throat as crimson poured and sprayed with the pulses of his heart, choking on blood and gasping for air, Chōjūrō reached the guard closest to the elevator. His adversary had leapt out of his seat, lifting up his sword in preparation of defense.

"Ambu—"

Six shurikens whirling around Chōjūrō's body and impaling into the unarmored chest of the guard cut off his attempt to alert nearby allies. His sword lowered slightly to his right side, feet stumbling back, eyes wide in pain—in fear—as the Swordsman dashed to his defenseless side.

"No—"

Chōjūrō silenced him with a single slash across his jugular. Then, as he collapsed to the floor, crimson rivers pouring through his hands clasped over his wounds, choking and gurgling as he drowned while surrounded by solid stone, the Swordsman finished him and his fellow guard off mercifully.

No other guards rushed out of the nearby stone corridors ready to do battle against the infiltrating Mist shinobi, and the chilly air remained utterly still and somewhat stifling. There wasn't complete silence in the aftermath, however.

Chōjūrō flicked his eyes over the foreign underground environment; he could hear distant noises deeper within the caverns. Voices of guards yelling orders, the subservient replies of laborers and somewhere in the mild din he could hear crying children.

Breathing through the tightness in his chest, Chōjūrō removed the blood from his kunai with a diagonal downward slash through the air, flinging flecks of blood off the onyx kunai and onto the ground. Their infiltration had gone unnoticed, so far. The toughest part of their mission, he knew, was yet to come.

"A merciful death was better than they deserved," said Natsumi coldly, joining him.

"Maybe," he nodded slightly. "I know they've helped facilitate so much suffering, and all for money, too. But…"

Trailing off, he frowned. The Swordsman strode ahead and crouched down beside his other kunai, picking it up to holster it once more.

"But what, Chōjūrō?" Natsumi probed intensely. "Tell me why we should give them even the slightest bit of mercy after everything we know they are responsible for."

"If we become monsters and demons to destroy these heartless people…" Chōjūrō nervously bit his bottom lip. Then continued. "I just don't think Lady Mizukage wants us to become monsters or demons. Not even for this. What kind of future can we build if we become what we're here to destroy? That's all I meant. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Or maybe Lord Ao is right when he calls me too soft-hearted," he finished in a quiet, insecure murmur.

Natsumi said nothing. She walked away silently, stopping only once to call him to follow. According to the kunoichi, Haruhi was somewhere deeper underground. She was alive, though, and frankly that was enough to refocus Chōjūrō after their difference of opinions.

They traversed the halls as silent shadows. With the aid of Natsumi's sensory abilities they navigated around the crowded areas of laborers and their guards whenever possible, and silently eliminated lone guards obstructing their deviations as they searched for a second elevator or other means to descend into the next circle of this hell.

The mine was well-crafted, or to his inexperienced eyes it was. It was built like an underground compound in certain areas, with luxurious rooms—luxurious by minimalist shinobi standards—for the guards, far enough away from the mining areas to escape the noise.

Unfortunately for the guards, that also meant any skirmish wouldn't be heard.

Such was the fate of one such room occupied by five men, three of whom were awake at the start of the battle and two who had awoken as their comrades were being slain in a breach and clear maneuver. The room seethed with the clatter of battle, and yet with the door sealed shut behind them their adversaries' cries of alert never reached allied ears.

They were leaving bodies in their wake, which seemed counterintuitive to their stealth operation at first glance. But Chōjūrō came to understand Natsumi's intentions as they cleared further rooms.

To free these people, all of these guards must be eliminated. It's the only way they'll be free of this suffering they've endured. And to save Haruhi and Chinami means going deeper into the mines. We're clearing a path for the eventual evacuation, and we're doing it systematically.

Thinking of the mines as a cinnamon roll, they could have skipped the outer ring of the sweet roll and eaten the icing coated center first, but it would be a messy endeavor and the gratification would be short-lived, for the outer ring would still need to be eaten. And it wouldn't be nearly as sweet.

Instead, they were starting with the outer portion first, removing it piece by piece in a systematic dismantling of the sweet roll so when they finally reached the center, they would leave their taste buds satisfied with the sweetest part.

First, they would eliminate the reinforcements and guards outside of the main path. Then they would finish off the guards in the main area of labor on this level of the mining operation. With the threat contained above they could head deeper into the mines without fear of being boxed in between two battles. And it would make it easier for Haku to regroup with them when he finished with Fuugetsu.

"You're not too soft-hearted," Natsumi said abruptly as they traversed the halls.

"Huh?"

"Earlier you wondered if Ao was right to call you soft-hearted. I'm telling you he isn't."

"O- oh. Thanks, I think."

"Sorry for bearing down on you like that back there. I can't say I feel the same as you about showing these demented bastards mercy. But I understand where you're coming from, and why Lady Mei is fond of you. Hang onto your kindness, Chōjūrō. It'll help brighten the Mist's future."

"I'll do my best."

He hoped he could. Although he hadn't admitted it out loud, he understood why Natsumi felt the way she did. Beneath his training, beneath his kindness, there was a piece of him that didn't want to show these guards mercy either. Not after meeting Mika. Not when they kidnapped and hurt Haruhi. Not while hearing the cries of children and adults suffering at their merciless hands in these mines.

Together, Natsumi and Chōjūrō prepared to breach another heavy steel door. Silently gesturing with his hands, the Swordsman questioned his teammate how many adversaries were in the room. The kunoichi wore a pensive expression, and shook her head.

Unknown.

Grabbing Hiramekarei off his back, he nodded to Natsumi to open the door. The kunoichi kicked the door open, causing a loud and long groaning of metal within the corridor, opening the room for the Swordsman to enter. He rushed in, mystical sword gripped at both hilts and prepared to strike. The Swordsman's eyes darted left, right and center.

Slowly, in shock, he lowered his weapon.

"Oh, god…"

Natsumi rushed in beside him. The gasping, choking sound she made sounded like someone had punched her square in the sternum.

The room was long horizontally, stretching on for several meters both ways into darkness, but just deep enough to fit a walkway for two people to walk and a medium-sized dog's kennel. Which the guards had, several times over. From the far ends of the room to the center there were metal kennels, and every single one was occupied.

By humans. Children, teenagers and adults. Men and women.

Those positioned at the entrance groaned beneath the searing light entering their dark prison, whimpering and covering their heads with their dirty and raw hands as they curled into the fetal position. The prisoners were all attired in drab undergarments, visibly ripped and frayed, stained by sweat and dirt and blood. The pungent stench of sweaty humans and feces assaulted Chōjūrō's sense of smell.

Though horrifying, Chōjūrō forced his heavy feet to move him closer, returning his weapon to his harness as he knelt at the cage of what he assumed should've been a healthy woman around Lady Mizukage's age. The woman was almost bald, shaved haphazardly with no care to the ugly tufts left behind. She was not frail or emaciated. She was a skeleton.

Glancing around frantically at the others, he realized it was the uniform state of health. Everyone, man, woman or child, had sinewy flesh that was taunt against their thin bones. They didn't look human. His brain struggled to associate them with living, breathing people; instead, he saw ancient mummified remains, thin and dry after years embalmed within a tomb and almost nearly fully decayed.

Except these remains weren't remains at all. They were actually people, somehow alive despite their appearance bearing a closer resemblance to corpses than a living human.

"Please, no more," the woman whimpered, head tucked into her chest.

"He- hey, uh, don't… Don't worry," he stammered, unsure of what to say. "We're not… We're not here to hurt anyone. We're here to help."

"Help?" The woman lifted her head slightly. Chōjūrō bit back a gasp, chest too tight to breathe. Her dark eyes glistened with tears. Her lips were chapped and bleeding. "You're…not one of them?"

She reached her hand towards the cage, bony fingers curling around the metal as if not believing he was there. Chōjūrō gently slipped his fingers through the gaps and rested them on hers.

"No. We're here to help," he said, stronger and confident in his mission.

Chōjūrō wasn't sure if it was the weak flicker of hope or the tears that poured from her eyes that made his heart ache the most.

"Please," she begged. "Save us."

No. It was that single plea that shattered his heart. Because…he couldn't. Not yet. They couldn't have these starving, tormented people running or stumbling through the halls in search of the exit or to free others. The guards would target them, kill them. And none of them in their current condition, in their current clothes, could survive the winter storm on the surface.

Chōjūrō shut his eyes and grit his teeth. I…have to leave them in here. These poor people, I have to leave them imprisoned for their own safety. I know it's the logical choice. I know they'll only die if I let them out now. But it feels so horrible!

"As soon as we eliminate all threats," he opened his eyes and looked at the woman, "we'll return to free all of you. I promise," he replied softly. "Can you hang on a little longer until then? At least until we secure the area."

She squeezed her eyes shut, a sob breaking from her lips. But she nodded to his request, squeezing her bony fingers around his.

"I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely. "Just…don't give up, okay? We'll be back, I promise."

With hesitation weighing down his steps, he exited the room and helped Natsumi seal the door shut again. He battled against the upset stomach the action gave him. He felt sick, nauseous and it wasn't because of the smell.

Together, he and Natsumi stood outside of the cell in the silence of their own thoughts. His kunoichi teammate bore a violent expression, shoulders visibly trembling in restrained rage.

"Natsumi?"

"Yeah?" she replied hotly. He didn't take it personally or shrink away.

"I told you I would do my best to hang onto my kindness. And I meant it. But…" The Swordsman clenched tight fists, narrowing his eyes at the floor. "I'm not feeling very kind right now."

"Me neither." Natsumi turned on her heel, cloak swishing with the quick and abrupt movement. "Follow me. We're not finished killing these monsters yet."

No, they weren't.

---

"Oi, what do you think you're doing?! Get back to work!" screeched Taishiro.

He rushed down the mild slope, wound up his knout and cracked it over the bare flesh of a lazy miner who had the gall to rest. The teenage boy let out a wail and arched his back, falling over onto his side from his knees, which he had collapsed to a moment prior.

Taishiro, commonly called The Weasel by his compatriots, had a body, voice and a growl as strong and vicious as the same animal. He could almost hear the other miners and guards laughing at him behind his back whenever he spoke.

The nickname had haunted him since his childhood. The first moment another child decided to shout to his friends that his face bore a resemblance to that of a weasel he'd been cursed to be called Taishiro the Weasel, until finally everyone just dropped his name entirely for The Weasel.

But who is the weasel now?

He grinned vindictively and wound up his knout. The boy cried out again. And again. Then one final time. The malnourished body writhed on the stone as blood poured down his back.

"Oh, look at you squirm!" he taunted in a squeaky voice that grated even on his ears. "I thought you were exhausted! Now get up, you lazy cretin!" he shrieked. "Back to work. Chop chop! Do you want to die?"

"Leave him alone already!"

Some pretend hero, a middle-aged man, acquired his attention with a bellowing shout as some withering woman rushed to the lazy miner's side. The wannabe hero stood in nothing but his knickers, sweating profusely, the skin on his knees torn up and bruised.

"Oh," The Weasel grinned vilely, turning to face the hero. "Fine. I'll give you some attention, then!"

"Do your worst, Weasel."

Growling, the Weasel struck the man across his chest with a furious blow, drawing blood instantly. As he collapsed to the ground, crying out in agony, he struck him repeatedly wherever he wished. By the time he hit the ground there were new wounds opened on his shoulders, face, arms and back.

"Never forget what you are!" he screeched. "You're just animals! Trash! Worthless sacks of flesh and bones!"

"No- not as worthless as yo- you!" the injured hero ground out. "Bet- better to be trash than a weasel, I say."

"Why you little ingrate!"

The Weasel wound up again. As he prepared to swing forward, he was met with tugging resistance on his knout.

"Look what I caught, Chōjūrō. It's a little weasel," a menacing voice cooed.

An unnatural chill shot down Taishiro's spine. Slowly, he peered over his shoulder, finding the end of his knout wrapped tightly around the hand of a crimson-haired kunoichi.

Behind her, gripping one kunai stabbed into the shoulder of one of his compatriots and another carving open his throat from ear to ear, was a second shinobi. He bore an intense expression on his bespectacled face, merciless and unkind.

Five other bodies lay dead on the stone ground at the top of the slope. He could see multiple, relentless and furious stab wounds in the torsos of some, beneath who pools of blood had formed and were presently slithering down the decline he stood upon. They'd been alive to feel them all, he knew in his heart, before their throats had been slit.

One fortunate soul had a kunai impaled into the back of his skull. He probably hadn't even felt it.

Taishiro was not a fortunate soul. No, he realized how truly unlucky he was as he gaped in horror at the crimson-haired demon, whose face was shrouded by malevolence and stained by the blood of his compatriots; whose hand steadily wrapped more and more of his whip around her arm, dragging him closer and closer as he tried desperately, fearfully to tug her instead, to be the one in control and wielding the power; whose turquoise eyes resembled death itself.

"Let go! I'll- I'll—"

With one rough yank he fell face first onto the stone. His nose hurt immensely; in fact, he could feel blood. It made his hands tremble. He'd never bled before.

"No, no, don't stop now. Please tell me what you intend to do," the demon cooed.

Trembling and squeaking in terror, he slowly lifted his head. What he saw wasn't a person or a shinobi. Shrouded by a curtain of crimson, turquoise eyes blazing demonically, what knelt in front of him was a demon.

"Give me some ideas," it said.

"Ple- ple- ple- please. Don't hurt me."

The demon smiled. It was a terrifying smile.

"Oh. I won't."

She tore the knout from his grasp and unwound the length she had tied around her arm. Rising to her feet, she stepped on the back of his neck with enough pressure to keep him pinned, but not enough to kill him.

"Chōjūrō, help me with this, will you?"

"What do you need me to do?"

"Bind his wrists together and then his ankles."

The other shinobi opened his mouth to speak, but shut it a moment after.

"All right."

Although the Weasel struggled and screeched for mercy as the shinobi bound his wrists together with ninja wire, and then his ankles, it hadn't mattered. He'd never been a strong person. Not until he was stationed at the mines. Against these shinobi he was just…a helpless weasel.

"Thank you," the demon thanked after he was properly bound. "Help where you can with the injured. Reassure them they're safe."

"Okay. But what about you?"

"I'll join you in a minute."

Roughly, the demon dragged him across the stone by his bound and numbing arms straight towards the wall where the miners had been working moments prior. She forced him onto his feet.

"What are you going to do to me?" he whimpered, tears stinging his eyes.

"I won't do a thing. Hey, you, mister," she called to one of the miners. "Do you know if anyone here has ever wielded a whip of any kind?"

"I have," someone else answered. He didn't recognize the voice. He'd never gotten to know the animals he was meant to watch over.

"Good. You can have the first crack at him, then." The Weasel felt her hand on the back of his neck. And then his entire body went stiff. Even his jaw became too tight to move "Don't worry. He won't be going anywhere."

"Please," he ground out, pleading through his clenched jaw. Tears spilled over. "Mercy."

The words were unintelligible. Yet the demon understood.

"No," she replied coldly.

That was the last word she spoke to him before striding off. And then, as he whimpered and squeaked helplessly against the paralysis, there was nothing except the scurrying of the animals behind him for a pregnant moment. Sweat built on his neck and body. Fear pulsed and tightened in his chest as if he were walking towards the gallows.

Then the crack of his knout broke the air. His cry of agony was a pathetic, squeaky whimper. The pain burned in his eyes, made him want to arch his back and head up and scream to the heavens. But he could not, and it intensified his pain and fear a hundred fold.

This punishment would continue for an extended period of time as the men he'd tortured took their turns administering their vengeance upon him. And for that time he would squeak and weep for mercy.

The Weasel was shown none.

---

Chōjūrō organized the prisoners to the best of his ability, informing them of the rescue operation while all sorts—men, women, young and old—clamored around him and Natsumi, trying to touch or hug them to confirm they were real. Their tears and sobbing gratitude broke his heart.

He tried to calm their fears that they were free, but he and Natsumi also explained the unfortunate necessity for them to remain underground for the time being. The blizzard outside would kill them all.

Thankfully, the leaders among the prisoners understood and helped the others who wanted to leave immediately to calm down.

Once settled, they departed for the second elevator. It was there their silent infiltration came crashing down—quite literally.

There had been no means to sneak up on these rogue shinobi. Only a long, straight path in bright light. And these men—a group of four—had noticed a sudden lack of work-related noises occurring at the main site they'd only recently liberated. They were on guard, two already stalking slowly down the hall towards the mining site with their hands on their swords as their comrades lingered at the wooden elevator.

Chōjūrō and Natsumi rushed the first two sentries. They proved more formidable than their ambushed allies, with the Mist kunoichi being met in a deadlock between sword and kunai. They'd expected as much. For that reason, Chōjūrō entered the battle with Hiramekarei wielded in his hands, the mystical sword coated with razor sharp chakra.

He severed his adversary's blade and fatally wounded him with one strike.

"Chōjūrō, take the other two! I've got this one."

"Right!"

Dashing down the hall as fast as he could, the dormant Hiramekarei at the ready, he charged the final two sentries.

"Get in the elevator, you fool! Warn the others!" The closest sentry made the mistake of turning his head away to shout at his companion.

"I won't let you!"

The closest sentry turned to face Chōjūrō again.

"I'll end you monsters with one strike!" he declared. "Hiramekarei Release!"

The sentry slashed a wide, horizontal strike. The Mist shinobi ducked beneath it, chakra exploding off his sword and shaping into that of a bludgeoning hammer. I can control it. I won't bring the mountain down with it. I'll just strike hard enough to crash them into one another.

Strike aligned, he followed through and crashed the hammer into the torso of the sentry, audibly snapping bones upon impact. With a shockwave of pure force he torpedoed straight into his comrade, who had made it into the elevator but had yet to lower himself. Their bodies collided loudly, painfully. The pair collapsed to the floor, the second sentry alive but disabled. Groaning in agony. The elevator shook, trembling from the aftershock.

Then it plummeted down the hole, out of sight.

Chōjūrō gaped. He rushed forward to peer down the dark and endless pit, catching only the echo of the second sentry's petrified cry. A wooden splintering and crash carried up some moments later. Then silence.

"Well, things are definitely about to get interesting," Natsumi drawled, joining him at his side. The guard she engaged was still choking on his own blood.

Chōjūrō sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry. I guess I got a little worked up."

"Don't apologize. We'll make it work. Honestly, I'm just happy you didn't bring the mountain down on us." Natsumi hopped to the wall opposite of them, then gestured him to follow. "Come on. No time to stop now. Haruhi and Chinami are down there somewhere."

"Right."

---

Haruhi had no time to silently gesture Chinami to follow her. She snatched the woman by the wrist and dragged her as quickly as her limping gait allowed farther down the hall, all but crashing her shoulder into a door to force it open before guiding it shut with as minimal noise as possible.

They were encased in darkness once more, for the room was not lit by any artificial light whatsoever. The kunoichi crouched beside the door, wincing through controlled breaths as she attuned her ears to the commotion outside. Chinami breathed heavily behind her somewhere, silencing coughs as the stench of the room ensnared her senses.

The clamor of several guards rushing through the halls roared against the stone.

"Hurry! This way!" someone shouted.

"What's happened?"

"What hasn't? The prisoners have escaped, The Doc is dead and—"

The voices trailed off as they traveled farther away.

It was only a matter of time, Haruhi thought pensively. I suspected there would be a rotation schedule for the guards, but I had no way of knowing when. I hoped we would have longer.

An alarm had been raised among the guards. They had found the corpses of their slain allies and learned of the escape. That snag alone complicated their mission. However, not all the events of the past few minutes were unwanted.

"Haruhi?"

Chinami's whisper was directly behind her right ear, brushing warm air along her skin.

"Mm?"

"What was that noise a few moments ago? It sounded like a collapse in the mines."

"I can only speculate. However, I believe my allies have come for us. Perhaps the mechanisms holding the elevator were broken, resulting in the crash we heard."

A loud, thunderous crash that alerted all of the guards and, fortunately, dragged them off towards the fighting and away from hunting for the escaped prisoners.

"Oh god," Chinami coughed. "This air is horrible."

It smells of death. Putrid and old.

After another minute of silence, Haruhi finally cracked the door open with her broken hand, wielding her kunai in front of her as she scanned the corridor.

"We're clear."

"How will we escape if the elevator is broken?"

"My comrades will evacuate those we can save by carrying them. Although it is unfortunate, many will have to remain here until accommodations and supplies are made ready. They will not be forced to continue their labor. But it would be cruel to push them out into the snow without shelter, food or basic necessities. This abhorrent place can be turned into a refugee camp for those without a home or loved ones to return to."

Haruhi stopped outside of the door, turning around to offer her elbow to Chinami again. She could not stop her eyes from widening at what she'd failed to see upon entering the room.

Chinami stared at her expression with confusion, then turned around. The woman brought her hands to her mouth, letting out a cry of horror as she stumbled back and into Haruhi.

Inside of the room, thrown together haphazardly like a pile of dirty clothes, was a giant mound of nude corpses. Young and old. At least several dozen dead, she estimated on sight alone. Perhaps more.

The corpse pit had earned its name.

"Those poor people," Chinami wept openly.

Haruhi said nothing. She steadied the woman before walking around her and shutting the door tightly to seal the stench and all of its horrors within.

I'm sorry, she apologized to the souls of the departed.

Gripping her kunai tightly, she waited silently for Chinami to regain her composure before setting off again. She couldn't soothe her pain any more than she could grant those poor souls a fair second chance at life. All she could do was remove the cancerous tumors.

And she would. One scourge at a time.

---

Traversing through the snow storm towards the mines had taken time, but Haku finally arrived, stepping into the cave dwelling from the unrelenting storm with a short, relieved sigh. He lightly brushed his hand over his head and cloak, removing flakes of snow as he strode past the slain bandits without a single glance.

At the mining shaft, he paused once, eyes following the rope and pulley system down into the darkness. It seemed sturdy. Good. When their reinforcements finally arrived, the elevator would expedite the delivery of supplies and the eventual evacuation tremendously.

The Mist shinobi descended swiftly along the walls, arriving at the bottom in a matter of seconds, where he found the breaching handiwork of his comrades on the top of the elevator. Hopping through, Haku scanned his surroundings diligently before striding out and crouching down beside the corpse of two more slain guards. He examined their ruptured jugulars, the blood still wet. And then the merciful ends they were given after their voices were silenced.

"Chōjūrō eliminated these two," he noted clinically, confidently. He lifted his eyes to the surrounding stone, observing the distinct lack of other guards slain in visual sight. "The infiltration seems to be proceeding smoothly. Hopefully I am not too late to aid them."

Haku set off swiftly, and cautiously. Looking and listening for any sign of his comrades or their trail, as well as possible remnants of the enemy guards patrolling these halls. He was no Sensory Type, but under Zabuza's tutelage he learned to strengthen the natural senses he was born with.

It was at a perpendicular intersection he paused, uncertain of which path to follow. The stone halls at first glance appeared the same to the shinobi, giving no inclination of where they led to or who might await him at the end, only promising to reveal the darkness of the human heart in explicit detail.

A slight anomaly in the stone caught his attention. In the hall leading off to his left, carved into the very stone itself by chakra, was an arrow directing further down the hall above the symbol of Mist Village.

Haku nodded appreciatively and dashed off.

Throughout his search he was guided by matching symbols. However the farther he went, the more unnecessary the carvings appeared, for his comrades had left a morbid trail of corpses for him to follow as well.

Cautiously peeking into rooms, he witnessed the aftermath of well-organized ambushes; the scenes of knocked over furniture, of bodies lying strewn across the floor, over tables and at awkward and uncomfortable angles told their stories nearly as well as their fatal wounds and frozen faces.

Although morbid, he followed the trail obediently. Chōjūrō and Natsumi had quite literally carved a meticulous path through these mines, eliminating threats one room or hall at a time as they worked inwards.

Their infiltration had, by his observations, proceeded flawlessly thus far. Haku held no intention of ruining it by recklessly deviating from their path.

It did feel tedious, as if he was wasting precious time; truthfully, he would prefer to link up with Chōjūrō and Natsumi immediately and procced with the rescue operation as a single unit. But without sensory abilities he had no means to know where exactly they were. All he knew was this path would lead him to them, and that certainty drove Haku ahead.

As he swiftly approached another corner he caught the echo of voices coming from beyond it. Children, from the sound of it.

Did Natsumi and Chōjūrō free some of the prisoners already?

Slowing his approach and quieting his steps, he stopped at the corner, lowering into a crouch to peer around the corner like a snow leopard slinking low in the snow to ambush its prey.

There were, in fact, children beyond the corner. They were gathered together at a steel door with a few teenagers, struggling to tug it open despite all of their effort. To his dismay they were all skin and bones. Some of the children were sitting down on the floor, sniffling and crying.

Haku rose and approached steadily. "May I help you with that?"

The children shrieked. The few teenagers among them stiffened in fear.

"Easy," he soothed, raising his hands to show he meant no harm and halting several strides away.

These poor prisoners couldn't threaten or hurt him, but they were desperate and had suffered at the hands of aggressive and domineering fiends. He hoped the gesture would ease their tension.

"Ar- are you wi- with the nice lady and boy?" one of the children sniffled.

Haku smiled softly. "I am. I asked Natsumi and Chōjūrō to go ahead of me while I handled an individual obstructing our path to these mines. I'm sorry if I startled all of you. May I help you somehow?"

"There are more of us behind this door," one of the teenagers explained, straining to even budge the door.

"And the adults are either too busy with punishing that weasel or freeing the other prisoners," the sole teenage girl among them answered.

"They're scaring me," a small girl with only a single tuft of hair on her shaved head whimper.

There was a general agreement among the children. The teenagers, too, Haku noticed.

With the prisoners attired in ratty, sweaty and worn underwear, the likes of which barely clung to their bony bodies, the flower brands marring their flesh were entirely visibly. A few bore brands at the back of their neck. One teenage boy in particular, shaved bald like the others, had the crimson flower seared onto his left temple. The majority, however, were forever burned somewhere on their upper bodies. And the children weren't spared.

No. The children hadn't been spared from this vile and perverse sign of ownership. Nor were they spared from the harsh labor or punishment the fiends behind this operation forced upon them.

Their suffering was painted on their sinewy bodies in explicit discolored detail, written and narrated by a menacing voice through the overabundance of scar tissue and infected wounds. Their hollow and dry eyes sobbed in silence.

"Okay." He approached the door, gently ushering them out of the path.

The steel door was heavy, but he had no issue opening it. What he saw within, however, caused his eyes to go wide and his head to recoil back. His nose scrunched unconsciously as the stench of days or months old sweat, infected wounds and feces struck him.

All but one of the teenagers—the girl—rushed in on weak legs, followed by the majority of the children. They cried frantically the names of parents, relatives, siblings and friends. Hopeful to find them among the caged prisoners. Hopeful they hadn't perished.

Haku frowned in discomfort, silently lamenting the grotesque cruelty these people had endured, and the arduous trials yet ahead of them. He thought of Amari's last letter, specifically one line from it.

I wish it were different. I wish this world was different. Do you think we can change it? I hope we can.

I wish this world was different, too, he thought solemnly.

A small hand grasped and tugged at his cloak. The little girl with the single tuft of hair looked up at him with big, black eyes glistening with tears. Eyes that were full of suffering, just like Mika's. Her small hand clutched his cloak tightly.

After inhaling a short breath, he smiled softly and kindly at the girl and lowered himself down to her level, answering her silent plea by hoisting her up in his arms. He ignored the thrumming ache in his injured arm. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into the crook of his neck.

As Haku rubbed circles over her back, he turned to the teenage girl. She was around Natsumi's height with a light dusting of freckles across her nose.

"My comrades, do you know where they are?" he asked.

"Oh. Yes," she nodded once. "The redheaded one had a fire in her eyes. She said their friend was deeper in the mines, but they also asked about another person. A girl. But no one recognized the name. Afterwards she and that boy with the fish sword dashed off for The Gallows."

"The Gallows?"

"It's what we've come to call the second level in this hell. Anyone who is sent there never returns. It's where we go to die, and where the corpse pit is."

A knot formed between Haku's brow. "I see. Can you lead me to the adults punishing this 'weasel' then?"

"What about your comrades?"

"I will regroup with them soon. But first there is something I must do."

The girl agreed to his request and led him through the corridors to an open chamber with slightly higher ceilings. There were signs of mining everywhere, but it was the repeated crack of a whip and the frightened women and children still lingering in this chamber that acquired his undivided attention.

The repeated crack-crack-crack caused the child in his arms to flinch and whimper into his neck.

"The noise will end soon, little one," he promised soothingly.

After gently handing the small girl off to the teenager, promising to return in a moment, the Mist shinobi approached the slope where the whipping was taking place with long, purposeful strides.

The man being punished, the Weasel, was standing erect, frozen by a paralysis technique placed by Natsumi if the strange black mark on the back of his neck was any indication. The fabric of his clothes was shredded, and soaked in blood.

The man whipping him drew back to strike again, but before he could follow-through his wrist was snatched and firmly restrained by Haku, who had flashed forward in a blink.

Narrowing his eyes at the middle-aged and bald man, he squeezed his wrist tighter—a silent demand to release the weapon.

"What are you—"

"That's enough," he interrupted, voice cold.

"Enough?" one of the other men—one of three other bystanders on the slope—repeated in disbelief. "It isn't enough. Not until he suffers as we have!"

"Let go of the whip. Now," Haku did not relent.

Neither did the other men.

"This is his punishment. He deserves it for all he has done!" the whipper declared, eyes brimming with tears.

"You're right. He does deserve to be punished, as do all those who have taken part in these abhorrent deeds," Haku replied calmly. "And my comrades and I will see that they are. But this is not the way."

The whipper tried to tug his hand free, to no avail. "Who are you to tell me this isn't the way? I've been trapped here for years! Friends of mine have died here!"

"You have my sympathies. I'm sorry you have been subjected to this torment—"

"I don't want your sympathies! I want to make him suffer as I have! As we all have!"

He tried to tug again. Haku's grip did not falter.

His eyes sharpened. "And you would become like him to achieve this end? You would surrender the last of your humanity for this perverse display of power?"

He gestured with his free hand to the other survivors.

"Open your eyes. You're frightening everyone. The children are afraid of you, because at this moment you resemble the same men who have tormented them."

He twisted the man's wrist slightly, gaining leverage over him. Haku's expression became severe.

"You are forcing them to relive their trauma with every crack of that whip. I understand you have suffered. I have seen with my own eyes how these heartless people have caged you, how they've stolen your dignity and defiled your hopes with sadistic pleasure.

"But if you're willing to brush aside the suffering and trauma of all those who understand better than I what you've experienced, then you are no different than the weasel you are whipping.

"This cruelty will never bring back the anguished departed. This cruelty will never heal your scars; it won't heal your heart. It will transform you into the same monsters we are here to stop. You'll replace one weasel with another, only it will be you who bears the whip against an innocent. It will be you who steals the dignity of others, who cages and torments them. Is that what you want?"

The whipper's resistance cracked slightly. His glistening eyes flicked away as he grunted.

"There are still people on this level locked in cages, stripped of their dignity as you have been. Yet you," Haku glanced to the other men with a dangerous expression, halting their attempt to advance and take the whip themselves, "all of you are wasting time on this man rather than freeing them. Their lives are important. He isn't."

He watched the group and the whipper in silence for a moment. Unrest and resistance lingered like an ember in the ashes of a pyre.

"Let go of the whip," he demanded again. "This has gone on long enough."

The whipper did not respond. Haku was genuinely beginning to worry he would have to take drastic measures when the whip abruptly fell to the floor.

The Mist shinobi swiftly stepped on top of it to discourage and prevent any attempts at retrieving it. He released his iron grip on the whipper's wrist.

"My friends…they deserved better than to die helplessly down here," he murmured painfully, body beginning to tremble. "Not down here in this hell."

Haku gently placed his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Let all your pain out," he implored in a soft voice.

Again, the whipper resisted his command. But his fortitude had cracked, and the gentle words of the Mist shinobi coaxed emotions he had kept buried for far too long. His body quaked and trembled. He sniffled and squeezed his eyes shut, and then…

The light murmur of the chamber was broken by an anguished, gut-wrenching cry. The whipper collapsed to the stone floor in a fit of gasping sobs.

"No one deserves to suffer as you all have," Haku said, retrieving the whip from the floor as the three men knelt down beside the whipper.

He retrieved a curved kunai from his pouch and severed the weapon in three places to prevent further use. No one needed to wield it any longer. And with the whip destroyed, he approached the man held in a paralysis, bearing his kunai in his hand.

It hadn't been noticeable while standing behind him, but the Weasel was whimpering and crying as well, Haku learned. It didn't affect the shinobi. He stood beside the paralyzed man, who could only look at him from the corner of his eyes with a pleading and silent cry for mercy, wearing a neutral expression.

"I suspect you were the one whipping these poor people when Natsumi and Chōjūrō arrived," he said softly.

The paralyzed man made a strangled noise, unintelligible and yet articulate in its purpose.

Mercy. Please.

"I've seen your version of mercy," he replied without emotion. "You displayed it quite enthusiastically on the bodies of children and adults alike." The paralyzed man made a stronger strangled noise. "Do not resent me. I take no pleasure in this."

With clinical detachment and precision, Haku committed the final blow. The man crumpled to the stone floor; he was dead before he landed.

Haku cleaned his kunai off and returned it to his pouch, frowning in thought at the stone walls.

What was worth all of this suffering? What were the Crimson Flowers after? All this wall appeared to be made from was regular stone.

He walked past the sobbing man, up the slope and returned to the freckled teenager. The little girl in her arms reached out towards him. Smiling kindly, he took her into his arms again and allowed her to bury her face into his neck.

"If I may ask, what were you forced to mine here?" he asked the freckled girl.

"Iron ore. There are rich deposits located throughout the chamber on this level, and I believe even down below in The Gallows. But that wall has nothing. Nothing I saw, anyway. They were just forcing us to work for their own entertainment."

"Mm," he hummed, frowning. "So this mountain has enough deposits to make a profit then?"

"Yes."

Again the Mist shinobi hummed, lightly rubbing circles over the little girl's back as he pondered on the situation. Iron ore was valuable. Perhaps once these people were evacuated this operation could be legitimized and transformed into something good for the Land of Water and its people, instead of a den of evil. Haku hoped.

Until then, he had a mission to complete. A duty to fulfill. When asked if Sōma was down in The Gallows, the freckled girl informed him of the gold-toothed man's departure some time before they showed up. It was an important detail.

We have no way of knowing if he will return, or if others like him will turn up. Haku glanced around at the meek and defenseless civilians within the chamber. Enemy reinforcements wouldn't slaughter all of these people; they're valuable tools to be used. But examples would be made, and an ambush would be set for our return. If I regroup now, our backs will be exposed.

The wise move would be to hold here, begin rudimentary aid for the survivors and prepare for potential reinforcements. Should his comrades fail to return soon he would follow their trail down to The Gallows to regroup. For now, though…

The little girl tightened her hold around him.

For now I believe I am needed most here.

---

Chōjūrō clutched Hiramekarei tightly, bearing the mystical sword in front of him as a warning and promise of death. Pressing back to back with him was Natsumi, kunais in hand.

Their eyes flicked around the cramped chamber. Around their feet were four corpses, and beyond the corpses were two dozen guards still breathing, still brandishing their weapons and prepared to fight.

They have us completely surrounded. This is bad.

There had been no chance for stealth. No chance to slim down the enemy numbers before an all-out battle like this. To make matters worse, the enemy numbers were bolstered by numerous prisoners, frantic to appease their masters and craving some reward; the abhorrent guard controlling them, standing at the back of the pack and brandishing a whip, was visibly pleased by their obedience.

What do we do? Chōjūrō swallowed roughly. We were able to avoid killing the civilians before because there was more space to maneuver and evade, but now…

All their enemies had to do was charge them all at once, and then the chaos of battle would trigger his and Natsumi's shinobi training and survival instincts. There would be no time to think, no time to hesitate. Not if they hoped to survive this encounter.

The prisoners would risk their lives to hold them in place. Their enemies, on the other hand, would use them as meat shields.

But we can't just kill them. This isn't their fault.

Surely there was some way to save them.

Right?

The Swordsman wasn't given time to consider it further. With a cry of battle, the guards wielding swords and blunt clubs rushed the two Mist shinobi at once. Simultaneously, commanded by the crack of a whip, the prisoners joined the charge. Chōjūrō clutched his sword tighter, trying to think of the appropriate counter.

Several objects rattled past him in his peripheral vision at high speeds, shooting straight into the charging guards, and piercing through them like an arrow loosed by a ballista. Blood flew, cries of agony echoed and carried over the stone, and many of the guards gaped and froze as their compatriots formed a human shish kebab on a metal chain glowing with a hue of gold.

Startled by the attack, it took Chōjūrō an extra moment to realize the chains had come from Natsumi, appearing out of her torso. Strangely, he could feel chakra thrumming from the chains.

What is this technique?

In total there were seven chains to appear from her body. Three had carved a path at ten, two and twelve on a clock, claiming six lives. The other four curved around from her sides, rattling past Chōjūrō to impale those charging him directly, claiming a decent total of nine more lives.

Nine guards left, bolstered by the prisoners who had no fear of death or pain.

Natsumi retracted the chains back through her victims, where the bloody metal vanished inside of her torso without a trace. Her knee buckled slightly. Sensing her weakness, a group three prisoners frantically skittered and scrambled after her.

Chōjūrō spun on his heel, jumping in with a kick that caught the first prisoner in the abdomen and sent him careening over the stone and into the pack of stunned guards.

"I'm sorry," the Swordsman apologized while charging shoulder first into the second prisoner. He ducked smoothly beneath a clawing hand, keeping the blade of his sword away from the civilians and Natsumi, and struck with his elbow, catching the third in their bony abdomen.

"Please, just stay down," he pleaded to the fallen three, sword at the ready and eyes on their enemies. More of the prisoners were on their way, and the guards had finally regained their courage. "Natsumi, are you okay?"

"Worried about me? That's sweet."

Despite the purr in her voice, and doubtlessly the sadistically amused curl of her lips, he could tell the technique had required considerable strength to perform through her uneven breaths.

"I can fight. I've only just started warming up, and look, my new punching bags are rushing to die. Ready, Chōjūrō?"

"Oh, um, ye- yeah," replied the Swordsman awkwardly.

Shouldn't I be the one asking her if she's ready? Or perhaps he'd jumped in too quickly to help. It wasn't like Natsumi necessarily needed him to defend her; Lady Mizukage had trained her personally, after all, so his aid had probably been unnecessary.

"Oh, and thanks," Natsumi added right as the battle began anew.

The clatter of battle returned to the chamber. Given no choice but to defend themselves, Chōjūrō and Natsumi batted away the prisoners with non-lethal physical attacks while defending themselves from the guards.

The scene was a seething sea of chaos: bony bodies flew and crashed to the floor, while other prisoners rose to their feet and threw themselves at the two shinobi once more; the shinobi danced around the fallen corpses of their enemies, fighting to find an opening and cut the enemy guards down; the whip-wielder ruptured the air with repeated cracks and drowned out the battle by shouting commands until he was red in the face.

By the time they diminished their enemies numbers by three more, two more small squads arrived too join the fray.

"Please just stay down," Chōjūrō pleaded to a group of prisoners as he hopped back in an evasion, nearly stumbling on the fallen body of a guard. His eyes darted left, and with slight rotation of his hips and pivot of his feet he managed to deflect and redirect a guard's sword. With his opponent off-balance, he capitalized, slashing the fish-shaped sword through his exposed side.

The guard let out a cry, dropping his sword to place his hands over the deep and fatal wound. He collapsed to the floor. Continuing his agile footwork, Chōjūrō evaded a prisoner's attempt to tackle him; the prisoner caught the air and the hard ground a moment later, squealing in pain. There wasn't time to apologize or plea for the tortured man to stay down—more were coming.

At the other side of the battle, Natsumi wasn't holding back in the slightest. When a prisoner approached with intent to harm her, she struck them with powerful blows that bruised almost instantly. And for the guards she showed a complete lack of mercy. She brutalized first before slaying them.

The kunoichi blocked a series of slashes and cuts, pivoting gracefully out of range of a thrust, but receiving a small graze to her bicep from a second sword-wielder as she did.

She returned the favor a moment later. With a well-timed parry, she broke through the second man's guard, stepped in and slashed his throat; before he could drop his sword and cover the wound, she twirled around him and impaled one kunai through the back of his neck and out the front. The other she impaled into his spine, puppeteering the body with effort to shield her from the first swordsman, who was attacking on her right side.

As the swordsman finished his cut on his dead compatriot, unable to retract the blow, Natsumi yanked both kunais out of her victim, spinning around him swiftly and stabbing a kunai into the chest of her enemy before he could lift his sword again.

Stab after relentless stab, the kunoichi targeted vital organs with merciless precision until the man collapsed to the ground, fatally wounded, gasping and hacking on blood as death quickly approached. She lunged like a demon after the next enemy.

Chōjūrō rushed over the piling bodies at a short half-circle, evading the cracking whip.

If I can just eliminate you, I might be able to calm the prisoners down.

He took three quick but long strides. On the final step, he pivoted and rotated his hips, sandal screeching on the stone as the air beside him pulsed with a sharp, ear-rupturing crack! Chōjūrō leapt over two of their enemies felled by Natsumi's chains, drew his sword back over his shoulder.

The whipper's eyes widened. Chōjūrō caught skittering movement in his peripheral vision, but his strike and his body were already committed. And with a heaving blow, he struck.

An anguished cry reverberated through the chamber, blood splattered onto his face and glasses.

The Swordsman inhaled sharply, horrified eyes locked on the falling body of one of the prisoners.

The prisoner he just cleaved with Hiramekarei.

"No!" he cried out.

Pain erupted over his chest a beat after the crack of the whip pulsed through the air. He recoiled back. Another crack struck him over his right arm. Grimacing, Chōjūrō had just enough sense in his shock to see two more guards coming in at his sides and hear the skittering prisoners approaching from behind.

With a leap and flip, he attached himself to the ceiling, sliding along it on his heels out of range of the whip and out of reach of the prisoners. The shell-shocked Swordsman lowered Hiramekarei, whose edges wept with the blood of an innocent, and clutched one hand over his thrumming chest.

"Mas- master…"

At the sound of the prisoner's shuddering groan, his head shot up.

"Did I…did I do good?"

"Of course," the whipper replied sweetly. "Here is your reward."

The whipper stomped on the dying man's neck, breaking it.

"Worthless peasant."

Chōjūrō's emotions swelled caustically within his heart. Guilt, sorrow, anger, disgust, they overwhelmed him. But two other emotions within the kind shinobi exploded and wrested control of his body for the first time in his life.

Hatred and rage.

Lowering his eyes, he grit his teeth and growled viciously.

"You…" He clutched his hands tightly around Hiramekarei's hilts, knuckles turning white. "You monsters. Twisting these poor people into your puppets, treating them like toys you can just rip apart and throw away when you get bored. I…"

The air within the chamber stilled. The prisoners all halted their skittering along the floor, wide and wild eyes drawn to the Swordsman attached to the ceiling above them.

"What are you all looking at?" the whipper demanded. "I didn't tell you to stop!"

He cracked the whip. They did not respond. They stood utterly still, their training of fear and pain drawing them towards a new, stronger master like moths to flame.

"I won't…" Chōjūrō's body trembled with tumultuous emotions, his breathing quickened. "I won't ever forgive you!" he said with a rough and rapid shake of his head.

One of the guards, a shinobi previously, leapt onto the ceiling and charged the Swordsman from behind.

"We're not looking for forgiveness, you stupid bra—"

The guard, previously a shinobi, never saw the Swordsman whirl around. Nor did he feel the razor chakra cleave him from shoulder to hip. His body fell to the stone with a dull thud.

Chōjūrō detached from the ceiling, landing on his feet with his eyes obscured by his glasses.

"I've had enough of this," he growled, killing intent flooding off him. "Natsumi is right: None of you deserve mercy. I was a weak-hearted fool to think and act otherwise."

His vision blurred and darkened into a tunnel. The blood Hiramekarei was weeping seemed to mix together with his chakra, creating an ominous purple hue.

"You're all finished. I'll turn this mine into your grave!"

Chōjūrō, wielder of Hiramekarei, member of the Seven Swordsman, dashed off shrouded by a vengeful demon. The prisoners wailed incessantly, stumbling and falling over, scampering off or freezing on the spot. They were left unharmed.

The Swordsman sped past the prisoners, rapidly approaching the first guard in his path, who was facing Natsumi. At the sound of his approach, the guard only had enough time to look over his shoulder and gasp.

Hiramekarei and its possessed wielder devoured his soul and blood.

Carving a warpath straight for the whipper, the Swordsman cut down another guard before he could lift his sword. He dashed and leapt over the corpses, pivoting out of range of a third guard's attack, then rotating at the hips towards the unforgivable monster to cleave his head off with a single strike.

More blood for Hiramekarei. Another soul for the possessed demon. These monsters had fed themselves on the helpless and the weak for so long. Now it was their turn to be devoured for their sins.

The mixture of blood and chakra transformed Hiramekarei's aura from peaceful blue, to ominous purple into its final transformation: crimson death.

The final guard between the Swordsman and the whipper gaped in horror, stepping back in retreat as his entire body trembled at the visage of the bloodthirsty demon charging him.

He was given no quarter.

And as the final guard between him and his target fell, cleaved viciously along his chest and back, the Swordsman let out a piercing roar. The whipper had no time to draw his whip back or strike. He tried to, of course, but in drawing his whip back he left himself open.

Years later Chōjūrō would be able to recall in vivid detail his enemy's face as Hiramekarei impaled him at his center. How the whipper's eyes had widened, how the blood splattered over his glasses and streamed out of the man's lips; how he stared at him helpless and afraid of his own mortality.

He would remember how the crimson chakra pulsed and swirled viciously, hungry for more blood, as he lifted the full grown man off the ground with his strike, lifting him high into the air and watching him squirm, kick and grasp at the blade.

In the moment, the Swordsman glared up at the man squirming in the air half-way down Hiramekarei—with the other half protruding out his back—seeing his blood plop on his glasses, feeling it drip on his face and join the stream of tears flowing from his eyes.

Heaving heavy, emotional breaths, he let out another cry and slashed his sword through the air, throwing the body off and watching him tumble over the stone floor.

"Dammit! Chōjūrō, behind you!" Natsumi yelled.

He began to turn, but even through his tears and blood-stained glasses he could see the two guards were too close for him to fully swing Hiramekarei around to counter. He still tried.

Natsumi slashed the throat of another enemy, ducked beneath a sword, impaled her kunai into the second man's stomach, but did not repeat her assault. She spun around him, tearing her blade through his abdomen and out of his side as she did; two chains rattled out of her torso towards the guards targeting Chōjūrō.

They wouldn't make it in time.

Darn it. I was caught up in my emotions and let my guard down, Chōjūrō cursed himself. And this terrible place.

A kunai whistled past his head and impaled with pinpoint accuracy right between the closest guard's eyebrows. As the lifeless body began to collapse forward, a nearly nude human-shaped bullet ripped past the stunned Swordsman, yanking the blade from his skull, spinning and slashing the throat of the second guard in one swift and graceful movement.

The bodies hit the floor with dull thuds, and the chamber fell silent.

Chōjūrō struggled to process it all. But when his savior turned around and met his tearful gaze with calm orange eyes, he awoke.

"Haruhi?"

"Are you all right, Chōjūrō?"

He should've been the one asking her that question. Without really thinking, too overwhelmed by all of his emotions and the sight of his comrade, who bore visible injuries and had been stripped to her small clothes by these monsters for some nefarious purpose no doubt, Chōjūrō dropped Hiramekarei and wrapped his friend in a tight hug.

"Haruhi! I'm so sorry! I took too long to save Mika and I wasn't able to stop Sōma. It's my fault you were captured and hurt more. I'm sorry! You don't have to forgive me. I'll get stronger so I don't let you down ever again."

"And I am sorry for causing you this distress," she replied. "Now please let go. Although I have forced myself to move on necessity alone, I am still injured."

"O- oh! Sorry!" He all but leapt away from his friend, blushing. "I didn't mean to hurt you more. I was just happy to see you alive."

Haruhi pursed her lips in an expression of awkwardness. It was cute, admittedly. Then his friend reached her hand up and patted him once on the head.

"I am happy to see you alive as well," she said. "You should pick up Hiramekarei. This floor is no place for it to rest without its bandages."

"Ahh! I totally dropped it, didn't I?!" he wailed in horror. He whirled around and picked up, examining the blade for any chinks. "Oh no, if there's even the slightest bit of damage Lord Ao will chew me out for sure! And Master Zabuza will kill me! Please, don't let there be any damage. I don't want to be renowned for damaging one of the Seven Swords, least of all Hiramekarei!"

As he panicked, Natsumi joined them and cracked him in the back of the head.

"That's for letting your guard down, you dolt."

"So- sorry," he murmured.

"I'll forgive you this time. But only because I understand what set you off." She turned to Haruhi. "I figured you'd find some way out. Sorry we took so long to get here and clear this place."

"It is no trouble," Haruhi replied. "I am pleased you arrived when you did. Escaping this prison would have been exceptionally challenging or outright impossible for us without your aid." Her orange eyes scanned the corpses littering the floor. "There were more guards here than I anticipated."

Natsumi clapped her on the shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you're all right. Here, you can wear my cloak in the meantime. Don't need to give Chōjūrō and Haku a show."

Haruhi accepted the cloak, grateful for an extra layer. But before she did she reached into the cup of her bra and procured a gambling chip painted with a red flower.

"One of the guards I killed had this on his person. I am unsure of its worth to our mission, but it may be valuable."

Natsumi pocketed the chip with a nod of approval. "Good call. This could be useful."

Looking over to a woman dressed in clothes far too big for her and haphazardly chopped platinum hair standing off awkwardly in the distance, the kunoichi asked,

"Gonna introduce us to your friend, Haruhi?"

"This is Chinami, sister of Mika."

"His sister?" Natsumi furrowed her brow. "That's interesting. You two don't look anything alike. And you're at least a decade older than him, if not more."

"Family isn't defined by blood," Chinami replied firmly.

"Heh, true," Natsumi chuckled, dropping her suspicion. "Well, Mika is safe and sound. We can take you to him as soon as we organize the people here."

"Thank you for saving and caring for him. And for saving me."

Hiramekarei, thankfully, was undamaged by his carelessness. However, the mystical sword continued to weep crimson tears. It reminded him of the poor prisoner who had jumped in front of his "master". The aches in Chōjūrō's heart intensified.

With a practiced motion, he swiped his sword through the air, flicking flecks of blood from the blade before placing it on his harness once more; it would still need to be cleaned, but that would have to wait a little longer.

Chōjūrō removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt, staining the cloth with dark blots. He wiped his tears away on his sleeve, adjusted his glasses to sit properly and then cast his sad eyes to the dead body of the prisoner he had cleaved.

He lay prone and motionless on the stone. Dead. Empty eyes and gaunt face unnaturally still. Wet blood trickled and streamed from the cleaving wound down pale skin and into the gruesome puddle.

Even if the whip-wielder hadn't broken his neck the man would have died from the wound dealt to him by Hiramekarei. Knowing that made him feel tainted. Like he'd committed the ultimate sin on purpose, betraying his comrades and the future Lady Mizukage envisioned.

Logically, he was aware the whole incident was a terrible accident triggered by the monsters that tortured and twisted the poor souls here into obedient servants. He hadn't meant to cleave the man; the prisoner had jumped in front of his attack before he could stop it. And he hadn't delivered the final blow.

He still felt responsible, though. Still felt talons of grief and guilt piercing his heart.

With a long, emotionally drained sigh, Chōjūrō tore his eyes away and checked their surroundings. The cowering and trembling bodies of the prisoners were scattered around the chamber, sobbing hideously over their dead "masters" bodies, searching their pockets or clawing with raw fingers at the earth. One was trying to reattach the severed head to its body.

"What should we do?" he asked quietly. "We can't bring them up in their condition; they might hurt the other prisoners. And…they might hurt themselves or kill each other over whatever 'reward' they were promised. Their crazed. Fanatical, even. It's not their fault, but… They're a danger to themselves and others right now."

"Yeah," Natsumi nodded slightly, voice low. "It isn't fair. It isn't pretty. But we'll need to lock these prisoners up. At least until we have the supplies and manpower to handle them. Or until we figure out if we can cure this insanity."

"I may have a lead you can follow. Chinami, may I have the syringe?" Haruhi spoke up.

The woman handed over a needleless syringe to Haruhi, who then handed it to Natsumi.

"It's a narcotic. Highly addictive and administered to the majority of the prisoners on this level. They have been selling it to residents of our Nation on the pretense of curing their sorrow and depression. And when they can no longer pay for the addiction foisted onto them, they force them into labor camps or Flower Shops."

"These bastards keep finding new ways to piss me off," Natsumi growled. She then gestured with the syringe to Haruhi. "This is good, Haruhi. Once we break down the drug and learn what it's made of, we can track their supply, destroy it and hopefully make a cure." She smirked. "Honestly, I can't tell who captured who."

After sealing the syringe within a storage scroll where it couldn't be damaged, Natsumi and Chōjūrō set about undertaking the worst task of this mission: Ordering the prisoners to return to their cages.

It was horrible. Heartbreaking. Disgusting. But necessary.

"We won't keep them caged long," Natsumi said as she led the way back to the elevator shaft. "We've already sent word back to Lady Mei of our mission; she's probably already organizing the necessary squads and medics to liberate and take care of the locations on that map you acquired, Chinami. In the meantime, after we regroup with Haku and I finish tearing him a new one for fun, we'll prepare for our next objective."

"Your next objective?" Chinami repeated.

"We're hitting the Flower Shop you and Mika came from next," replied Natsumi. "That's probably where the Hound is squatting now. Sooner he's dead, the better. For everyone."

Chōjūrō nodded in silence to himself. This mine was only the first part of their mission. They had successfully liberated it from the Crimson Flowers, and now the Flower Shop was next.

Next they would face the Hound of the Mist.

This time we'll stop you, he thought, determined.

This time the Hound would pay in blood for his crimes.

This time it would be the future of the Mist fighting its dark and detestable past.